


you're the only light I ever saw

by fideliant



Series: slow dancing in a burning room [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Bottom Thorin, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, Foot Massage, Humor, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Power Bottom, Romance, Slow Build, Top Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliant/pseuds/fideliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All sorts of needs were welling up in Bilbo nowadays, things like being kissed where only Thorin ever dared to, like inhaling the rapturous smell of Thorin’s hair, like hearing Thorin rumble his name as if it were a thunderstorm in his throat. He had never needed so much of anyone, before all this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the only light I ever saw

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a companion/sequel piece to the [previous](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1969146) work in this series, but can be read as a standalone. Happy holidays to anyone who's still got some festive mood left in them...

He used to dream an awful lot about getting married, once.

It was understandable to some extent, Bilbo supposed. He was fresh out of adolescence at the time, and had spent a great deal of his teenage years growing up in the company of very attractive young lads and lasses, many of whom had decided on their others long before adulthood. Bilbo, unfortunately, was not one of them. Early on in the year there’d been a rumour circulating around about him kissing a hobbit lad in the loos at school and that had been that — it became common knowledge among the younger generation of hobbits that they needed to stay away from queer old Mr. Baggins, though none of them could ever say for certain why.

(The irony — they’d all come to him to ask, and stay the afternoon for summer berry pie. Bilbo had learned in his youth that a fauntling’s biggest weakness was a combination of curiosity and an insatiable sweet tooth.)

The thing was that it wasn’t long after he’d left school when Hamfast Gamgee settled down with the Goodchild girl living across the street from Bag End, and Bilbo decided it was time to grow up. He thought that he could have loved Bell Goodchild almost as much as he loved Hamfast, perhaps even started a family with her, given the right circumstances. Bilbo frequently wondered about what they could’ve called their children. There'd been a list after some time, a list of good, strong names — _Rose, Emily, Harry, Sam_. And as for children between him and Hamfast, well.

Dreams turned out to be very useful for some things.

Bilbo was forty-five when he — feeling somewhat a fool for — decided to start looking for someone again. It was the year before that his mother had passed away after a short battle with illness, no grandchildren or any other heirs save Bilbo, and he’d been too worried about her ailing health to ask if she was alright with that. Even in sickness, Belladonna Took never talked to him about what she wanted, had been too strong and too kind, and she’d figured Bilbo out without him telling her, of course, and he loved her even more for that. Enough so that Bilbo was fully determined, and focused on finding the one for him, and didn’t even consider giving up until he was fifty, where other hobbits his age were either years into marriage or resigned to staying single. He had tried his best, which was the important bit, and considering his reputation in Hobbiton his mother would’ve probably been able to forgive him that much.

Probably.

It ended better than it could have, at least. The last person Bilbo saw had been one Wilibald Brockhouse, a Bree-gentlehobbit who’d chosen remain single as long as Bilbo had, and shared many of his reasons for doing so. Wilibald was soft-spoken and already greying at nearly fifteen years Bilbo’s senior, but surprisingly affectionate, and kind, and decent at sex considering their combined decades of bachelorhood. Not that they were having a lot of it, anyway, between Wilibald’s bad hip and a mutual agreement to take things slowly.

They continued seeing each other for much longer than Bilbo initially thought possible, to the point where he was starting to think of milestone dates — an engagement, a wedding, their first child together — and was almost surprised when it was over. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it felt like it could’ve been more, and it was, gods, it was, up until he realised that they were both tired, and growing old besides, the best years of their lives no longer ahead of them. Wilibald understood more of the world than Bilbo ever could hope for, and Bilbo trusted that he knew what he was talking about when he said that little good could ever come of allowing what they had between them to culminate.

And it wasn’t that Bilbo feared ending up alone — quite the contrary: life on his own was comfortable, and nice, even without anyone else in it. Asking for more than that would be to court trouble, if Wilibald’s anecdotes of hobbits like them were to be believed.

At fifty years old, Bilbo wasn’t dreaming very much about marriage anymore, or having a family, even. Dreams had their place with him, and more often than not he imagined being swept up and carried away by a runaway dame thirsting for adventure, or having a handsome stranger pull him out of Hobbiton and to the ends of the earth upon some noble quest. He thought about worlds beyond his own and winters in foreign lands, and read books about travelling and exploring and journeys to faraway places. Even though Bilbo’s life was quiet, and more satisfactory than most — never let it be said he wasn’t immensely grateful for that — he was allowed his private fantasies, after all, and for the Took blood in him it wasn’t like he’d ever say yes.

Six months later, Thorin Oakenshield proved him wrong.

***

Bilbo was careful not to bother Thorin between certain times of the day, because being king came with many burdens that were tiring to just think of having to carry, and he didn’t want to inadvertently become one of them. Breakfast between them was hallowed ground, but beyond that Thorin was endlessly busy with… kinging about, or whatever that seemed to demand hours of his attention at a stretch. It was common knowledge that Thorin worked harder than what any normal person would deem mortally possible, but Balin constantly reassured Bilbo that he was eating, and even taking breaks on particularly inundating days, sometimes, and that should have been enough.

Only, Bilbo worried, and continued to do so for a long while. How could he not, knowing full well the kind of person Thorin was? He’d never met anyone who displayed as much difficulty grasping the concept of being in over one’s head as Thorin did, and for all he tried to warn Thorin off burning himself out he only ever seemed to work harder, and longer; it figured. If Bilbo learned anything from nearly a year on the road with Thorin, it was that it would literally take the world nearly ending to drill sense into that thick head of his.

“I don’t like this,” Bilbo complained one night when Thorin was actually retiring at a somewhat earthly hour. Getting to watch him prepare for bed was such a rare sight nowadays that Bilbo found himself watching closely, as if witnessing the appearance of some rare and mythical creature. “You work too hard, you know that?”

“It’s work that needs to be done,” Thorin replied, not quite managing to keep the tiredness out of his voice as he shrugged his clothes off and padded over to bed. He bent down and kissed Bilbo, then slipped under the covers and drew them over himself with a wide yawn.

“Mm hm. When was the last time you got more than four hours of sleep a night?”

“I have breaks,” Thorin mumbled, his eyes already closed.

“Those don’t count, and it’s not like you take them all the time,” Bilbo insisted.

Thorin groaned, and buried his face in his pillow, muttering something else that Bilbo wasn’t able to catch. It was a familiar tactic, but Bilbo pressed on.

“I just don’t want you to overwork yourself,” he said simply, lying down and shifting closer to Thorin. Bilbo ran his thumb down Thorin’s jaw and sighed. He didn't like to fuss, but Thorin could be stubborn and hard-headed, and it was a good thing that there was at least one of them who was willing to show him the error of his ways. “You’re going to run yourself into the ground at the rate you’re going, you idiot.”

Thorin cracked a sleepy eye open. The look in it was dark, amused. “You fuss far too much for my liking,” he observed. Beneath the bedsheets, his large feet closed around Bilbo’s, warming them against the cold air outside. “Mayhaps it is not too late to promise myself to someone else who does not.”

“Don’t you dare,” Bilbo said, swatting at Thorin. He let out a squeal as Thorin lunged up and pinned him with surprisingly tender strength, looming down on him like the magnificent bastard he was. “Oh, oh! Get off of me, you brute!” Bilbo demanded, trying to wriggle free whilst containing his laughter.

That earned him another kiss, this one long and passionate and lasting. Thorin put his tongue in and Bilbo moaned with the pleasure of sucking on it; surely it was too late for this, even considering how hard he was already.

Bilbo kissed the tip of Thorin’s large nose, nuzzling his scratchy beard. “Sleep,” he said, and pushed Thorin off, though not without difficulty. “We can have a go at it one of these days, provided you come to bed on time again.”

Thorin’s eyes glittered with a mixture of disappointment and hopefulness and fresh mirth. Unbelievable, that he’d been all tuckered out a couple minutes ago. It would never fail to be astounding to Bilbo, how Thorin’s love for him could fill the dwarf with so much life. “Promise?” he asked.

“Promise. Now go to sleep.”

***

Less than thirty days since the start of spring and Bilbo still had trouble believing what his life had come to, his life with its months of Eastern winter and dwarven neighbours, that short but nasty episode of gastric flu, and then this too-cold too-wet spring that made the hairs on his feet stand upright wherever he went. He wasn’t traveling a lot, not in this weather, and tried to keep his spirits up by thinking of summer, and reading, and smoking all the pipe-weed he could get his hands on. Which wasn’t very much, because for all the new trade returning back to Erebor there was the odd Westerner or two hawking little more than an ounce of the lower-end stuff, but Bilbo made the best of things where it came to getting his fixes.

On drier days, he ameliorated the situation by hankering after Thorin with near-reckless abandon — a spot of kissing stolen up against the wall, a sneak handjob in the water closets where they both had time to borrow. Love came slow and easy, like the flush of a creeping inebriation, and proved just as inevitable if not more so. It wasn’t long before Bilbo knew the fastest way around Thorin’s serious head and the sights that came with it, knew where all his seams were and how to pick at them, to draw out the most unkingly of words in that deep, rich voice of his.

_Sweet-arse-fucker_ , that was good, yeah. Bilbo would have to try and get that one more often.

They hadn’t been intimate with each other for very long. The interest had been mutual for ages, it would seem, replete with a protracted episode of dancing around the subject before Thorin nobly assumed the role of initiator and asked first before things could get out of hand. _More_ out of hand, anyway — Thorin would probably just find it humorously sexy if he ever knew, but Bilbo would sooner eat a cow pie than admit to having whacked it to thoughts of shagging Thorin for weeks.

What? Objectively speaking, Thorin was _gorgeous_ , and Bilbo had needs.

All sorts of needs were welling up in Bilbo nowadays, things like… like being kissed where only Thorin ever dared to, like inhaling the rapturous smell of Thorin’s hair, like hearing Thorin rumble his name as if it were a thunderstorm in his throat. He had never needed so much of anyone, before all this. The thought that Thorin needed just as much of him was exhilarating, almost panic-inducing. It was one thing to love a beautiful person and another to be loved by someone beautiful, to be loved by Thorin, who looked at Bilbo and spoke to him as if he were the light of his life.

Anyway.

It was essentially a given that they were going to get married, which would be the greatest thing ever if it were less of an eventuality and more of a certainty. For starters, there was still the engagement to look forward to, which was, you know, fine — well, not fine, actually, because it was in Bilbo’s nature to worry himself to bits about things that needn’t be worried about. They were taking their time with it, he reasoned, which would explain the lack of subtle conversations about ring sizes, and honeymoon locations, and… other little soon-to-be-engaged things, or whatever it was people did before getting hitched. It made sense that Thorin was hanging on for the right moment, the perfect moment to officially drop the question, whenever and wherever that was, and Bilbo was well-versed in the art of patience when it came to matters of romance.

Still, it didn’t stop him from wishing they’d just get it over and done with. The wedding was in summer, or so they’d implicitly agreed; sooner or later one of them had to bold up and make a move.

***

He was learning something new, every day.

Thorin’s back was a map of scars and years of anonymous labour, pale lines criss-crossing against thick muscle and furred over with fine hair, most of them newer than others, their combined history not yet understood. Bilbo stared in quiet reverence, legs crossed in front of him as he sat and watched and did nothing. The sight made his own back itch, an urge to scratch nesting at the base of his spine. Thorin went stock-still as Bilbo touched a darkened knot of skin, whole body tensing up, and Bilbo removed his hand immediately, afraid that he had done something wrong.

“Does it hurt?” Bilbo whispered.

A long silence followed before Thorin said, “No,” and then, tersely, “Touch me again. Don’t stop.”

Bilbo hesitated, then leaned forward to press his mouth to the scar, silently moving his lips over the puckered flesh as if by doing so he could discern its meaning.

***

In some way or another they were the world to each other, or so Bilbo liked to think, even though he was aware that it was considered patently unhealthy to desire any relationship as closely symbiotic as that. For years he’d managed to enjoy the moments of his life even without anybody to share them with — gods, Bilbo didn’t know if that could be the case, now, that if Thorin were to somehow be cut away from him one day he’d still have the confidence to call his life well-lived. If he’d known beforehand that falling in love would be like this, then maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that he managed to avoid getting this deep into it for as long as he had.

The deal with Thorin was that his approach to love was very much like everything else he did — overwhelming, unreserved, and with an instancy that made Bilbo wary at first, back when they were just starting out and needed space to adjust. There was a time when he’d have given anything for a fraction of what he was receiving, now, this brand of love he could shout from the rooftops without consequence and only expect to be rewarded with more. To not just be with someone, but to belong with them, as well.

_His_. The thought snagged at Bilbo like a stumbling block at times, such that he had to sit down or lean against walls to keep from falling over. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ , that he was having trouble wrapping his brain around it. He wasn’t just Thorin’s — Thorin was _his_  as well, because that was how relationships were supposed to work in a perfect world, weren’t they: fifty-fifty, an even split, what’s-yours-is-mine and vice-versa. Except Thorin wasn’t an equitable person, partly by virtue of the life he’d been born into, and who was Bilbo kidding, he did expect this, that Thorin would take it upon himself to shoulder seventy, maybe eighty percent of what they were, as if he always had to be the stronger of them and could carry their entire relationship on his hefty name alone.

Like, oh, now, for example, where Thorin was offering to rub his feet, even though Thorin was the one who’d been half a day standing and looked about a breath short of collapsing. After taking some time to consider the fact that he didn’t like his feet touched very much, Bilbo stretched out his legs and reclined back, allowing Thorin to knead at his heels, and quietly thanked the heavens for blessing dwarves with such strong, sturdy hands. He thought about them when they were gripping his sides, holding him close as Thorin breathed air into his lungs; when they were pulling his trousers down; when they were pushed into his under the covers at night, their fingers laced together like a stitching pattern. Easy to forget at times, that there was still so much about those hands to absolve, but then the bones of Thorin’s knuckles dug into his left sole and Bilbo stopped worrying about past follies entirely, gasping to conceal a stuttering moan of pleasure.

A mistake, it would seem, as Thorin looked up at him, surprise turning swiftly into dawning comprehension. “You —”

“Shut. Up.” Bilbo folded his arms and twisted away, his cheeks flaring.

He heard Thorin chuckle before something wet swiped across his toes, and Bilbo realised with a rude shock that Thorin was licking his feet.

“ _Thorin_ —”

“Hush now,” Thorin murmured. His tongue flicked out to swirl around Bilbo’s toes, then went lower, and lower, until he was lapping at the base of Bilbo’s ankle. Bilbo cursed, trying to recall the last time he’d given his feet a thorough enough cleaning that would make this a good idea, only — Thorin wasn’t licking anymore, had grabbed Bilbo’s ankle with both hands and was exhaling breathily onto the bottom of his foot. It tickled, but only for a second before Thorin started burnishing Bilbo’s foot with the side of his bristly cheek, and oh, _fuck_ , Bilbo was getting hard, and shaking with whimpers he was muffling into the back of his hand.

“You are very easily pleasured,” Thorin rumbled, gently massaging the calloused skin of Bilbo’s foot with his thumbs. “Though I must say I should have expected nothing less from a creature with such splendid feet, after all.”

“Keep talking and you’ll see how splendid my feet are when they're between your eyes,” Bilbo warned darkly. But, you know what — he slid a hand into his breeches and fisted his erection, throwing his head back onto the pillow as devious thumbs continued to molest his feet. He closed his eyes, and hm, oh, he had to admit it, there really was little in the world that proved as exquisite as a foot-rub in the middle of knocking one out. Well, not a foot-rub, anyway, at least not anymore, but the execution was chaste up to a point and that had to count for something.

Something like, whatever — what did it matter, really? Bilbo found it hard to care about respectability at times like these, which, he suspected, held very much true for Thorin as well. That meant none out of two as far as opinions that remotely mattered went, so yeah, this was pretty hot, and Bilbo was determined to enjoy every second of it. He worked his cock a couple more times, imagined himself to be sheathed inside Thorin's body in response to a renewed dragging of lips and tongue across the arches of his feet, and then Thorin leaned up to suck his toes one at a time and Bilbo came in his pants before Thorin could finish with all ten.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bilbo breathed.

Thorin looked up, arching a sharp eyebrow. “That mouth of yours is going to land you in trouble one of these days.”

“Like it hasn’t already,” Bilbo muttered, wiping his sticky fingers on the seat of his ruined trousers. Blast Thorin and the things he could do with _his_ stupid mouth; it seemed infinitely more likely, really, that one of these days someone was going to stumble in and catch them in the act: Thorin down on his knees, Bilbo’s cock buried in his throat. The thought was a strangely exciting one, that people still had no clue about what they’d been up to for over a month, that they’d only ever be found out in a fashion as indecorous and vulgar as that.

“You never told me about —” Thorin kissed his big toe, “— this.”

“Why do you think,” Bilbo said, trying to tug his leg back and frowning when Thorin refused to let go. “Hey, wha…?”

Thorin was smirking now, and undoing his trousers with a familiar, single-handed efficiency. He freed his cock and knelt at the foot of the bed, lifting Bilbo’s feet in both hands. The intention understood, Bilbo needed no further prompting to make a move on his own accord, reaching out to sandwich Thorin’s cock with his soles. Thorin let out a approving grunt, resting his hands on the tops of Bilbo’s feet, but did not make any guiding movements with them.

The sensation of a cock between his feet felt… weird, was the word for it. Weird, but novel, and somewhat exhilarating; of course it’d be just like Thorin to figure out a way to fuck parts of Bilbo’s body that should by all intents and purposes be unfuckable, the pervert. But, but, Thorin definitely was on to something here if the way he was reacting was anything to go by, how even the slightest bit of friction from Bilbo moving his feet made Thorin twitch and draw in air through his teeth. It was still too soon for Bilbo to get into it again, but fuck, he’d probably be hard at the wrecked-wrecking look on Thorin’s face if it were possible, too.

“I’m going to make you come with my feet,” Bilbo said just as he realised that was going to happen. He propped Thorin’s cock up with one foot, scissoring the head between his big and second toe to hold it in place, and proceeded to scrub away at its entire length with the sole of the other. Thorin choked, keeling over as if he’d been slugged in the gut, and tightened his hands around the complex of feet and cock. He threw his head back and made an wholly undignified sound as he came, spending himself to completion in the clasp of Bilbo’s toes.

“Oh, gods,” Bilbo groaned, withdrawing his sticky, come-smeared feet and grimacing at them. Great, that he still had some of his own come on his hands and a fresh coating of Thorin’s come on his feet now, wasn’t that superb. If this ended up becoming a regular thing he was going to have to reexamine his life choices very, very closely to figure out where it had all gone wrong, though he more or less knew to start with the moment he decided to take up Thorin’s offer of a foot-rub. “How am I supposed to go to the bathroom now?”

“Walk,” Thorin said lazily as he tucked himself away. “You have two good feet, do you not? Unless if I have somehow injured them, of course. I do consider myself rather well-endowed, but even then —”

“Git.” Bilbo tried to catch the front of Thorin’s nightshirt with the filthiest part of his foot, laughed as Thorin dodged backwards to avoid getting a footful of his own come and fell off their bed with a bodily thud. It was somewhat worth it, then, having to suffer the indignity of being the spunk-covered kook in this particular phase of their physical relationship. “You bloody well know what I mean.”

“I was not jesting,” Thorin insisted, clambering back up and settling himself back where he’d been sitting. “About the walking bit, and my endowment, of course, but you should be well-acquainted with that already.”

“ _Super_ git,” Bilbo amended wryly. He swivelled himself on his bum, taking care not to touch the sheets with his hands or feet as he looked about for something to give them a preliminary wiping with. “You’re completely mental if you think I’m going to be leaving bits of you all over the place any time soon.” Though now that he thought about it, it wasn’t an altogether terrible idea, give the resident gossip-mongers something more to rabble about.

“It’s _my_ kingdom,” Thorin reminded him, as if it was a fact he’d ever let anyone forget.

“Being king doesn’t mean getting to do whatever you want, Thorin.”

It took Thorin no time at all to slink up to Bilbo and murmur in his ear, “Doesn’t it?” before he was sweeping Bilbo up, bridal style, because there never seemed to be any other form of carrying that he knew or deigned to use.

“Oh!” Bilbo squawked, instinctively flinging his arms out for balance, said, “ _You_. _Twat_ ,” cuffing Thorin on the ear with each word, and, “Don’t _do_ that if you’re not going to warn me first, damn it.”

Thorin ignored him blithely, leapt off their bed and stuck the landing, going down on one knee before he rose and stood with Bilbo hefted up in his arms like a babe. “I shall carry you there, then,” he declared importantly. “This is an amenable solution, is it not?”

“If you drop me, I swear I will be kicking you where it hurts,” Bilbo threatened, not really meaning it but he wasn’t going to risk a bruised arse, and Thorin could take a hint. He threw his arms around Thorin’s neck and leaned down to kiss his cheek, staining an imprint of his own hand on the back of Thorin’s nightshirt. “There, now you have to go, too.”

Thorin grinned. It was possibly the best thing Bilbo had seen all week. “Hold on to me,” he said, and then he was off at a careful, measured stride, his hand squeezing Bilbo’s arse tighter than what was strictly required.

***

By midnight they were redressed and back in bed and jostling under the covers, hands and lips landing in all the right places, ending in Bilbo leaning upright against the headboard with Thorin fast asleep on top of him, face pressed against Bilbo’s chest and arms around Bilbo’s torso. Bilbo kept still, afraid of rousing him with any sudden movements. He’d be hard-pressed to disturb the sleep of any being who looked as cosy and peaceful as Thorin did, now.

Fairly tired himself, Bilbo stroked Thorin’s hair with his fingers and rested his cheek on the top of his head, listening to him breathe. It was remarkably nice like this, just the two of them wrapped up in each other, no worlds beyond this private little space as theirs, as if nothing could come between them or cause them hurt. Funny, that the one person who had rendered so much harm onto Bilbo in the past now sought to protect him from it.

“I want to grow so _old_ with you,” Bilbo whispered, smiling at the sleepy, snuffling noise Thorin made in unconscious reply, and yes, he dared say he had it in him to believe: they still had time.

***

When Wilibald was breaking off their relationship — two, three years ago? Bilbo wanted to say two and a half but it didn’t really make a difference how long it’d been; the ache of rejection hurt all the same to him — Bilbo had blamed himself at first because he was somewhat of a walking cliche, and it seemed the magnanimous thing to do besides. There were several replies he’d thought of at the time but couldn’t bring himself to say, ranging from _thank you for everything, I’ve had the time of my life_ , to _fuck off and don’t ever let me see your face again_ , to _please don’t leave, tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do anything, I’ll change, I promise, just don’t go, please don’t go._

Instead, Bilbo had nodded, flashed a barefaced lie of a smile, and said to the empty air between them, “Alright.”

For weeks after that Bilbo found himself pondering any number of alternate outcomes if he hadn’t been too cowardly to speak up when it truly mattered. Maybe there was something about him that had broken the deal for them, and if he’d known sooner and fixed it then they’d have had stood an actual chance. Maybe that was how it was always meant to be from the start and Wilibald was doing them both a favour by ending it on the highest note possible. Bilbo loved Wilibald, of course he did, after being with him for so long and all that they’d been through. And he had been, for a time, the only person who ever loved back, or at least gave a smashing impression of it; the possibility of convenient pretense was there, even if Bilbo didn’t like to think about that.

_If you loved the wrong one so much, imagine how much you’ll love the right one_ , Bilbo used to always hear from his mother, but never once believed. He loved too viscerally to put credible stock in that, and any person could feel like the right one for him when he got close enough to burn his fingers on refusal. Maybe it hadn’t been as much his right one being out in the world somewhere as it was him being everybody’s wrong one, like an oddity, an alien, an extraneous puzzle piece sporting perpetually uneven edges.

As it turned out, Belladonna Took had been so very wise indeed.

***

They spent a weekend in Dale.

Bilbo was the one to suggest the vacation and Thorin the location; okay, so Bilbo had placed a suggestion for both initially, and anticipated Thorin to put up more of a fight, because workaholics were like that, except he didn’t, not really, had only remarked that the Woodland Realm was a tad out of the way, and that Dale would be better suited for a short trip out of Erebor. So yeah, Bilbo was suspicious, but hello, this was the dwarf who passed on his own birthday dinner to rewrite a forty-page decree that had a single spelling error in it, and then skipped supper to boot in favour of proofreading the whole bloody thing. Being in love did many things to Bilbo, but stupid wasn’t one of them, thank you very much.

Travelling to Dale took an hour by ponyback without the royal convoy (“For the last time, Thorin, _no_ ,” Bilbo had close to shrieked when Thorin brought it up for the umpteenth time), and it took another hour to find some semblance of accommodation that actually did both breakfasts and twin beds (a whole city rebuilt in the span of a few months and nowhere an inn with a double bed, what a joke). The room they ended up overpaying for was smallish but snug, with just the slightest bit of mold on the ceiling but there was little to be done about that. Bilbo wasn’t about to complain. It sure beat roughing it out in the open by a long shot, or making camp over goblin lairs. He’d learned how to appreciate the littler things in life as and when they came long before Thorin was in it.

They ventured out into the cold and breezy afternoon together, braving the drizzle in their coats, arms interlinked as they walked. Bilbo kept close to Thorin, settling comfortably on his arm. Now and again they drew the bewildered look or two from onlookers, the sort Bilbo was used to receiving back in Hobbiton, only it wasn’t like anyone was making incorrect assumptions then or now — a dwarf and a gentlehobbit walking side by side all touchy-feely, of course people would take notice.

Thorin was spatially unaffected by attention or rubbernecking, and did it well enough to cover both of them. He took to glaring at anyone who stared for too long and kissed Bilbo at the most unpredictable of times, possibly just for the hell of it, such that Bilbo started hoping to the gods that they’d be recognised, or better yet, pointed out to others who ordinarily wouldn’t give a shite about public displays of affection. This was true happiness, then, the sheer freedom of being, Thorin’s sumptuous mouth firming over his as they kissed and broke apart. If Bilbo saved the world twice over instead of just the one he’d still wouldn’t know how he ever came to deserve this.

Down by the city centre he rested his achy feet, downing a tankard of ale whilst across the street Thorin argued with a street vendor over the price of sweetmeats. Bilbo held his liquor as well as any other hobbit did, which explained the way his head was already buzzing by the time Thorin returned with some food and a second helping of alcohol. He wasn’t the type to let himself go, but neither did they take holidays as nice as this too often, so propriety could take a hike — Bilbo was going to have fun like never before, and if that involved getting wasted to within an inch of his life and regretting it only in a morning that wouldn’t last, then so be it.

“I love you, y’know that?” Bilbo found himself blurting some time later, when it was finally dark out and they were on the way back to the inn. Well, Thorin was on the way back and lugging Bilbo along, steadying him with both arms to keep him from falling over. Somewhere between the third and fourth pints of ale the world had started spinning and all the streets started to look the same to Bilbo, which was when Thorin became terribly boring, refusing his demands for a fifth pint; killjoy. But wonderful, reliable, _gorgeous_ Thorin, though — yeah, that was it, the things about him that Bilbo was madly in love with and he just needed Thorin to  _know_. “I love you, I love you —”

“I’m sorry,” Thorin murmured back, his arms tightening around Bilbo. “I shouldn’t have let you have so much, I didn’t know…”

Bilbo shook his head and snorted because wow, he didn’t know he was this good; not many people had the ability to wring an apology out of Thorin Oakenshield, and it only took getting utterly sloshed to bits to do it. He probably deserved, like, a medal or something. “Mm’kay,” he giggled, slumping against Thorin to seek the homey warmth of his coat. It was snowing just a touch, falling in little wispy flakes that spiralled about in the chilly evening air.

“Do you want me to carry you?”

Bilbo sighed. “No, thank you.”

“There’s still a fair distance to go — do you want to stop and rest for a short while, at least?”

It would be smarter to press on, Bilbo knew, and make it back to the inn before whatever remained of his sobriety gave out completely. Instead, he nodded and then Thorin was lowering him onto the side of the street before hunkering down to squat by his side. Bilbo shivered, and rubbed his hands together; almost instantly, Thorin’s heavy coat was draped around him and larger hands were over his own, warming them slowly.

“S’cold,” Bilbo murmured, his words beginning to slur together.

“Indeed.”

“I’m so happy… that you — that you’re here with me.” Bilbo smiled, and by the gods, he did mean it, meant it harder than anything he’d ever said before. Maybe it was the drunkenness talking or the exhaustion or a combination of both, but it felt as though he wouldn’t need anything more than this to be happy for the rest of his life — not gold, or sleep, and definitely not the inn with their stupid twin beds that never seemed to really connect no matter how close they pushed them together. Just the two of them crouched like tramps by a street in Dale and the way Thorin kissed, like how he was doing right now, so passionate and willing even for all the alcohol rife in Bilbo’s body and his breath, holding on to each other as if it was their last night together in the world.

“I love you, too,” Thorin said firmly, his hooded eyes drooping as he reached into his pocket, and it was a good thing that Bilbo was drunk out of his mind because his _everything_ just kind of overloads for a split second — all of a sudden he was sure what was about to happen, only, what kind of person thought it ideal to spring a proposal under these circumstances, like literally, _what_ , and Bilbo wasn’t ready for this, his head was spinning and from the way his stomach had twisted into a knot there was a good chance he was going to be sick and ruin the moment for them, but never mind that because Thorin was going to propose, oh, gods be good, _Thorin was going to propose._

“You’ll be warmer with these on.”

Bilbo blinked down at his hands, which Thorin was carefully slotting into the thick woollen gloves he’d produced from his pocket. They were soft and snug, warm and pre-loved. “Where did you get these?” he asked.

“Bought them just now. They’re too small for me, though, and I thought that you might need them. Are they comfortable?”

Bilbo flexed his fingers to test the material and nodded. “Th — thank you, Thorin,” he said, taking as much care as possible not to let his disappointment show. No ring, but this was just as good if not better, wasn’t it, that his hands weren’t all that cold anymore and he had the love of his life to thank for that. “I think I, um, I probably owe you one for this, huh? Gosh, I didn’t get you anything, I didn’t think, well. So if you want, like, I don’t know. Just ask, yeah?”

The corner of Thorin’s lip quirked upwards in a small smile. “I would very much like to kiss you again, if you’re alright with that.”

_Very much alright_ , Bilbo thought as his lips brushed Thorin’s again, his tongue still burning from all the ale. The sky was large and beautiful above them; he tipped his head back and pulled Thorin bodily onto him, addled through and through by alcohol, by love, and the quiet weight of the stars.

***

The first time they met, Thorin had said to him _this is the hobbit_ , like it was meant to be an insult, before forgoing all subtlety with _he looks more like a grocer than a burglar_ , which wasn’t exactly the most cutting of remarks, but in that moment Bilbo wanted nothing more than to reach out and backhand him across the face there and then, because how dared he, how _dared_ he presume things about the life of someone he’d only just met and couldn’t possibly hope to understand. Sure, everyone in Hobbiton who crossed paths with Bilbo had a turn at their own fair share of postulating, except nobody ever had quite enough gall to do it straight up like this stranger did, and Bilbo didn’t even care that he was handsome as sin — there were nearly five decades worth of pent-up umbrage he’d internalise in the smacking he was about to unleash, and if Bilbo had to stand tall and take this on the chin, then Thorin Oakenshield, whoever the hell he was or had been, could very well do the same.

Except that didn’t happen, big surprise, and Bilbo never thought to despise dwarves before learning they were naturals at homewrecking and gatecrashing and being in places where they weren’t welcome, but disregarding all that he decided could definitely hate Thorin Oakenshield for a very long time, no problem. They were so radically different that the grudge seemed almost too easy to bear. If Bilbo was day then Thorin was surely night, the black to his white, antipodes, you get the picture. Old history dictated that Bilbo didn’t even do well with people who were _like_ him; call him a sucker for punishment, but some morbidly curious part of Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder what having to be around Thorin for several months would end in.

_Opposites attract_ , Bilbo would reason to himself much, much later, when all of them were safe and not dying and had their futures to think about again. He’d failed to consider, of all things, the fact that exceptions existed, and sometimes polar opposites came in matched sets.

***

When they returned from their holiday in Dale Thorin sealed himself in the bathroom to freshen up from the road while Bilbo unpacked their things. They hadn’t brought much with them to begin with but the contents of Thorin’s baggage was a horrid mess, even for him, and Bilbo was clucking his tongue at what he’d expected would be packed disorder instead of unfettered chaos, which was probably why he didn’t notice that Thorin wasn’t in the bathroom anymore until there were arms sneaking around his waist and a knife-hard prick stuck into his lower back.

“Now?” Bilbo groaned. Thorin was nipping at his neck now, moving lower to suck at his collarbone. Despite himself, Bilbo canted his head to allow Thorin better access to the rest of his body.

“Yes,” Thorin rumbled, low and heated and _hungry_. “I’ve waited long enough for this, don’t you think?”

“And _I’ve_ waited,” Bilbo started, cutting himself short because _right time_ and _right place_ , he recalled, and while he wasn’t sure if this was the right time and place, he knew that this certainly wasn’t perfect —

Well, who needed _perfect_ , anyway.

“Let’s get married,” Bilbo said, soldiering ahead with it before he could lose his nerve.

Thorin nosed at Bilbo’s hair, seeming not to have heard. “Hm?”

The instinct to backpedal burned at him, but Bilbo swallowed and pressed on. “I said, let’s get married. You and me.”

Thorin paused, and then leaned down to nibble at Bilbo’s ear. “Of course, love. All in due time. But now —”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Bilbo sighed, turning to face Thorin. “What I mean is, this is it, right here, right now.”

“What?”

Bilbo took a deep breath to steel himself, and what the fuck, what the _actual fuck_ was doing? “Thorin, would you make me the happiest, that is to say, oh, for crying out — I’m asking if you’ll marry me, okay?”

The look of bemusement on Thorin’s face deepened, then changed to a red-faced realisation, and then, “This isn’t —”

“I know, I’m sorry, this probably wasn’t how you wanted it to happen,” Bilbo said, shaking his head. “I’m sure whatever you’ll have planned will be lovely, and perfect, with dinner and maybe some music and everything, and we can have that when you think the time is right and I’ll act all surprised and happy and we’ll probably make love all night long to celebrate, I promise. But, this is just me, proposing to you, because we’re already sleeping in the same bed and wearing each other’s underwear — yes, we are, Thorin, I’ve checked — and, well, I love you and I _hope_ you love me just as much, so I think it’s safe to say we’re set on being with each other forever, and it’s not completely crazy that we at least get engaged because of that, is it?”

Thorin blinked and opened his mouth slightly, then closed it, eyebrows furrowing.

“So you’re saying, this is it, then. Your… proposal.”

“Yes, Thorin. And, um, I wasn’t planning to do this up until like two minutes ago, so I don’t have a ring or anything for you, but I’ll kiss you if you want me to, and I’m not saying that’ll be just as good but it will be some kind of good, anyway. You told me I’m very, very good at kissing, didn’t you?”

“Why — yes. I did.”

“That’s that, then.” Bilbo shrugged. “I mean, you can say no if you want. Like I said, I still _want_ you to propose to me one of these days but I don’t think it’ll kill you to let me have this for tonight; hard to say the same thing for the mood, though —”

“Yes.”

Bilbo frowned up at Thorin. “Say that again so I’ll be able to tell if you’re just saying that to get into my pants.”

At this, Thorin broke into laughs — not the fractionally-amused sort of laughs that belied a borderline sub-par joke, but deep, booming guffaws that had his whole body shaking along with them. “Love,” he wheezed, “name one thing I’ve ever said or done that _wasn’t_ to get into your pants.”

Bilbo thought about this. “Fair enough,” he admitted, smiling despite himself. “But just so you know, I could say very much the same thing about you.”

“As you should. I am very desirable, after all.”

“ _Desira_ — you know what? I take it back. I take it all back. I don’t think I want to get engaged to you. Forget that I ever asked.”

Thorin raised his eyebrows. “Then, in that case, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, his hand slipping into his pocket, “you've forced my hand,” out came a box, a small, square box that glinted in the candlelight, “and with this, _Bilbo Baggins, Son of Bungo Baggins_ ,” Bilbo’s full name, only he’d never heard it used like that before, “I, _Thorin, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror_ , do solemnly and humbly ask if you would grant me the honour of your hand in marriage.”

The ring was slender and of the most intricate design — three smaller bands, one gold and one silver and the last another kind of metal Bilbo couldn’t identify with certainty, all coiled tightly around each other into a triple helix that ran the circumference of the ring before spiralling up to grasp a single, glittering diamond. Bilbo gaped down at it for several breathless seconds, stymied, and looked back up to find that Thorin was grinning.

“ _Wha_ —”

“I believe this is where you say _yes_ and kiss me.”

“No, no, no,” Bilbo blurted, shaking his head, and cleared his throat. “Okay, not no as in _no, I don’t want to marry you_ , what I’m trying to say is no, I’m not going to kiss you now, because, hang on a minute: you’re telling me that you’ve been carrying this with you everywhere?”

“It took quite some time to prepare satisfactorily, but yes, ever since it was ready,” Thorin confessed.

“When was that?”

“Three months ago.”

“But we’ve been together for _four!”_ Bilbo wailed. “And you had this all along? You could’ve just proposed when you got it made, you horrid oaf!”

“That's… still not a  _yes_.”

“And _this_ — it was supposed to be romantic! With dinner! Or, or music, and dancing; wasn’t that when you were going to do it?”

Thorin stepped closer, pressing the tent in his trousers against Bilbo’s belly, and wrapped his free arm around Bilbo, his hand landing to rest conveniently on his arse. “Well, let me put it this way. You and me, about to make love. This is very, very romantic, is it not?”

The shite-eating grin on Thorin’s face grew wider still, and damn it, Bilbo was going to fuck him so hard, like there already wasn’t enough reason Thorin deserved to be buggered until he couldn’t even think about pulling a stunt like this. He yanked Thorin down by his beard and kissed him, hard, shoving his whole tongue into Thorin’s mouth like a warning of what was going to follow. The ring box fell to the floor with a clatter; neither of them made a move to retrieve it, with too many better things to do with their hands.

“Naughty,” Thorin panted, out of breath for seemingly having attempted to inhale Bilbo’s tongue whole. “You naughty, naughty thing. Such a comely darling, you are, and so willing — you’ve wanted this as badly as I have, have you not?”

Bilbo didn’t respond immediately — he had gone up on his tiptoes to suck a massive bruise onto the lightly bearded skin above Thorin’s collar, where it would take an idiot not to notice the whopper Bilbo was sorely hoping to leave. “What I want is for you to shut up, now,” he managed once he was satisfied, dizzy from the head rush of getting hard too quickly. “First you play the fool with the proposing bit and, anyway, you know I don’t like it when you talk so much.”

“Make me beg, burglar,” Thorin challenged, ripping furiously at Bilbo’s clothes with a look of dangerous greed in his eyes. “I wonder, as small as you are, if you can make me scream for it, if you think you have what it takes —”

“You’ll scream, all right,” Bilbo promised, hands shaking down Thorin’s shirt and belt and pants as he undid buttons, laces, buckles as quickly as he could — why did Thorin have to wear so much clothing, why, gods, _why?_ “You want me to bugger you, that’s it, huh, I’ll bugger you until you can’t even stand, you stupid tit, and then I’ll make you plead for my cock in your arse and we’ll see if you’ll be springing engagements on anyone for a while, so there.”

“Easy enough to,” Thorin was saying, but Bilbo silenced the rest of it with a kiss, because whatever else he had to say couldn’t possibly be more important than chasing Thorin’s mouth and the punishment that came with it — Bilbo wasn’t quick enough to get the one-up on Thorin a second time, but went along with the programme and allowed his mouth to fall slack as Thorin tongue-fucked his lips.

“I thought I told you to shut up,” Bilbo said. The bottom lace of Thorin’s breeches refused to give; he pulled at it until it snapped in two and he found he wasn’t sorry for that at all. If Thorin wanted to shag and emerge with his clothes still intact, then he very well could have chosen clothes that were far easier to strip off. Bilbo palmed Thorin through his pants, squeezing his bobbing erection and he felt himself harden against Thorin at that, his cock already greedy for him, greedy to get inside him and fill him up.

“Bilbo,” Thorin groaned, his hands clambering up Bilbo’s back and grasping at the nape of his neck. He held Bilbo steady and kissed him, the singular smoothest motion they’d shared since getting the hots for each other, and probably would up till when they were done.

“You — oh, gods, you beautiful, _fuck_ ,” Bilbo gasped, his face flooding with heat, “I want to, you, ugh,” they’re between kisses again, long, smothering kisses to his lips and neck, and, “if you stop touching me, I’m going to, oh, yes, there, right _there_ ,” the last of their clothing fell to the floor, and he grabbed Thorin’s cock, jerking his wrist to pump the skin back.

Thorin shivered and made a strangled sound, his hips bucking forward, grinding against Bilbo with untempered fervor. Utterly wicked, the things Bilbo wanted to do to Thorin, anything at all to get him to make that sound again and then some. He wanted to feel the push and pull of Thorin’s body around him, every last tremble that was his, to become acquainted with him in ways nobody else ever could, and above and beyond that, it was the moment that Thorin would come for him and the knowledge that Bilbo had been the one responsible for that, yes, having the king of an entire realm sobbing and wrecked beneath him, to be one of the rare few in history who could claim with confidence to have ruled a ruler like this.

“Bed. _Now_ ,” Bilbo hissed, and because Thorin knew what was good for him he moved quickly, kicking their luggage off their bed to free up space. He fell backwards, dragging Bilbo down with his weight and angling themselves just so to sneak another kiss when Bilbo fell on top of him, which was roundly unnecessary — Bilbo was going to kiss Thorin again no matter what, anyhow. If he’d truly wanted to be useful he could’ve done something like, say, flop them both within reach of their bedside table, where Bilbo kept the lubricating ointment for times like this, and it was annoying because now he had to crawl off of Thorin to retrieve it, wasting valuable seconds that they should’ve rightfully spent fucking each other’s brains out.

Priorities, priorities.

“I shan’t be gentle,” Bilbo warned, dunking his fingers into the jar of ointment and wiggling them in Thorin’s face to show him how much Bilbo was intending for him to take — all of them, save his thumb. “If you wish for mercy, apologise and I shall consider it.”

Thorin had propped himself up on his elbows and sat smirking, his cock still throbbing against his hairy belly. “You shouldn’t make threats you have no intention of carrying out, Master Baggins,” he said.

Oh, that was it — Bilbo knocked Thorin’s thighs apart with his elbows and reached down to press his index finger deep inside Thorin, and went as slowly as possible to be a bastard. Thorin swore loudly, scrunching his face up and only opening his eyes as Bilbo started to ease in a second finger. His thighs were shaking from the effort of not clenching down, Bilbo could tell; he rubbed his other hand over Thorin’s stomach in circles, still studiously avoiding his cock, because Thorin was a sensitive wanker in every sense of the word and if either of them really wanted to rush ahead, it would easily be over in seconds.

“Don’t you dare come,” Bilbo growled, viciously twisting his fingers in until Thorin was gasping for air and curling his toes against the sheets. “Thorin, listen to me. If you come I’m going to bind you with rope and leave you here like a suckling pig, I shall, and pleasure myself in the loos, thinking of you, then I’ll come back and put my fist inside you, and you’d better take it, that’s what you’ll get if you come before I fuck you so _don’t_.”

“Not… helping,” Thorin grunted, “talking like — with language like, _that_ , you cannot expect me, to. Hgn…  _gah!”_

Bilbo had worked his last two fingers into Thorin’s arse to stretch him wider without warning; Thorin was no maid but it had been a while since they’d done this, and he was tight, but opening up steadily as he took deeper breaths. He looked — gods, what was up with that _look_ of his: head thrown back, jaw clenched, legs stretched wide apart, and Bilbo was only getting started with him. He’d tell Thorin to relax if it would do any good, if Thorin wasn’t already visibly straining from the effort it was taking to endure what was being done to him.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, pulling his fingers out and biting the inside of his cheek at the way Thorin’s hole slurped shut around them. As if there wasn’t already enough happening to give him even more of a cockstand. “Thorin, look at me. I want you to look at me.”

Thorin’s eyes did find his then, near-crazed and shiny with anticipation, or perhaps it was love contained within them, and at that a jolt of heat sprung into Bilbo’s throat, a fierce, growing hunger for the dwarf lying naked and open before him. He’d staked his claim on Thorin many times before, but he knew somehow, innately, that none of those would ever come close to feeling like how they were now.

He helped himself to more ointment, slicking himself up and shifting his hips to press his cock into Thorin’s loosened hole, just up to half the head, and held it there. Thorin spasmed around him and _snarled_ , hands flying forth to grab Bilbo by his forearms and squirming down the bed in an attempt to haul him in, but Bilbo refused to budge, bracing both palms against Thorin’s belly to keep him from pushing down onto his cock.

“Do it.”

Thorin froze. “What?”

Bilbo pressed down harder with his hands, frisking the thick muscles of Thorin’s abdomen with his fingers. “I did say that I’d make you beg for this. For me.”

Thorin balked at him. “You cannot be serious!”

“Oh, but I am. Very much so.” Bilbo closed a hand around his cock and tugged a few times to stave off the agony of not pushing any deeper than that. “I imagine I should have about half a minute more, and then I shan’t be interested in fucking you anymore, so you had better be quick about it.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

Panic flashed in Thorin’s eyes for a brief moment, then he was rolling them and forcing out through clenched teeth, “ _Please_.”

“Please, what, Thorin?”

Thorin bore the half-agonised, half-thwarted look of the compulsively, sexually frustrated as he gnashed his teeth and bellowed, “Please will you fuck me, I beg of you, Mahal damn it, and damn you as well!”

“Quite right,” Bilbo said, and slid his hands down to grip the sides of Thorin’s torso for purchase as he sank into him, slow. He felt his cock arch up into Thorin, opening him inside with careful, steady pressure. The slick slide of flesh into flesh was almost too much; Bilbo had to shut his eyes. It’d been a long while since they last did this, surely far too long. Thorin groaned obscenely and bent backward, moving with the push of Bilbo’s cock into his dilating body until they were nearly lying flat on their bed.

“Bilbo,” Thorin choked, an urgency in his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I know, I know.” He still wasn’t all the way inside Thorin but corrected that with another push of his hips, and Thorin gasped beneath him before they both stilled and lay shuddering against each other. Bilbo bit at whatever of Thorin he could reach with his teeth to stop himself from moaning. It was all he could do to keep himself together as he was, naked and sweaty and several inches deep in the reigning King Under the Mountain.

“I want — _nuuuh_ , move, blast it,” Thorin gritted, his leaking cock twitching against his stomach as he spread his legs wider in explicit invitation.

“Ah, ahh… wait,” Bilbo breathed. There would be no thrusting like this; as pliant as they were, this position was too static, too passive for that. He pushed himself up on his palms and steadied himself, withdrawing just a tic. His cock caught at Thorin’s insides, a shared sensation that made them both hiss. Bilbo tried for an easier angle, sliding a finger into Thorin’s arsehole above the crown of his own throbbing cock and working it about gently to create more distension, and breached Thorin to the hilt once more in a single quick shove.

A cry ripped from Thorin’s throat, so pornographically carnal and loud that Bilbo imagined the whole of Erebor had to have heard. The procession of Khuzdul that arose in its wake had some familiar words among it, but were still not ones that Bilbo fully understood. He could feel his own lips moving, but no sound was escaping him; that was fine, Bilbo supposed, since like Thorin, he’d probably just be speedily cursing his way to damnation too.

“I… I — I’m inside you,” Bilbo managed to gasp, once his voice was finally working again. A simple, hard fact, but he needed to say it out loud, if just to truly feel how real it all was. His head felt hot and heavy, though not nearly as much as Thorin did when his body expanded every time Bilbo rolled his hips to pierce him anew.

Thorin gave a stuttering pant of pleasure and it appeared that speech had momentarily failed him as well. He blinked up at the ceiling before his fluttering eyes flicked back to Bilbo with something in them like a plea. “Please… please,” he rasped. His shoulder blades dug into the bed and he shifted luxuriously, twisting his head from side to side as his expression faltered and cracked into sheer helplessness and want. “I — Bilbo, please…”

And, well, Bilbo had to swallow his words down, uncertain if he could trust anything he could possibly have to say in response to that, and he swallowed again, because — he didn’t think that any of this could possibly happen, did he, had never been daring enough to dream that someday, somehow, he’d be of such vital importance to someone else. Now, he rubbed the heel of his hand over Thorin’s breastbone, and under his palm Thorin’s ribs heaved, the thick hair covering his chest matted and shiny with sweat. He felt his own chest pounding and found that he thrilled at the idea of their hearts beating together in perfect synchrony, that they were living together and for each other.

“Shh,” Bilbo murmured, cupping Thorin’s face to stroke his cheek, soothe his gasping. “It’s okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you.” He rocked into him again and bent down to kiss Thorin, licking through his lips with ease and into his mouth. The flavour of spit lingered heavily on Bilbo’s tongue, but, not enough — he wanted to taste the musky thickness of Thorin’s seed, to consume the very essence of him. Instead, he kissed Thorin again and again, the rhythm of his hips tidally slow as he fucked in and out of Thorin, and — and he bowed his head, kissing Thorin’s throat and scratching his tender nipples with his nails; Bilbo hoped that hurt, it had to have, judging from the _fuck_ that earned and the frantic clenching of Thorin’s body, a splendid reaction, just beautiful — Bilbo scratched again with his right hand and reached down with his left, closing it around Thorin to rapidly tug him to completion.

All of the muscles in Thorin’s body went tense as he spilled out sticky warmth between them, squeezing down on Bilbo’s cock with every hot spurt of come. Bilbo buried his face in Thorin and gripped his shoulders and just _hung on_ , dangerously close to weeping himself. Thorin’s shaking hands jostled his back, molding him closer still as he rode it through and kissed the top of Bilbo’s head.

“Love,” Thorin murmured, looking a mess, looking wrecked.

Bilbo had to blink himself out of stasis, reminded to resume breathing by the sound of Thorin’s voice. It took seconds longer before he could move again, guided now by instinct and the sensation of shock-hot flesh pulsing all over his cock. His lower back ached dully, thrown out by the awkwardness of their lovemaking. He kissed Thorin’s beard, then his lips, and this was perfect, he never wanted to have to be any other way than they were right now.

“Oh, gu — gods, Thorin,” Bilbo sobbed. This was going to be the end of him, he was sure of it, but there was no other choice but to carry on until they were two-for-two spent and back in their own minds again. No rational thought could be contained like this, nothing at all beyond their heavy breathing and his cock throbbing in Thorin’s gut, jabbing at him; not soon enough, he was coming too, pulsing heavily into Thorin as white flashed in blinding, limbic bursts before his eyes.

“That’s it,” Thorin was saying throughout, “my consort, my _love_ …”

A wail was Bilbo’s answer as climax broke open inside him in waves, washing every other sensation out. When it was over he flopped down against Thorin and just breathed, too numb and blissed out by orgasm to try for anything else. He closed his eyes against Thorin’s chest and let himself drift through the aftershock like flotsam in the wake of a storm, coming back down to the way Thorin’s arsehole continued to constrict feebly around him.

“Stay,” Thorin drowsed, his hand stroking a caress at the nape of Bilbo’s neck. “Here… with me.”

Bilbo turned his face to kiss Thorin at the junction of jaw and ear, breathing him in, and yes, this was comfortable enough, not that he’d move away even if his life depended on it. “I love you, you know?”

Thorin looked like he was about to say something else, but just blinked and smiled shakily. His hand found the hem of his fur coat and he pulled it over Bilbo, draping them both against the cold air. It seemed as good a time as any to kiss Thorin, so Bilbo did, covetous and fast, never mind that he was still getting his breathing back under control.

They lay together under Thorin’s coat for a long while, kissing and groaning in mutual contentment. Bilbo traced his thumb in circles on Thorin’s shoulder, slipping off to finger the muscles of his arm. Thorin tightened his arms around him. A runny warmth down the inside of his thigh told Bilbo that his come was starting to trickle out of Thorin's body. That was alright, he supposed. They both reeked of sex, and the worst part was that they were probably going to fall asleep like this, even though there was still unpacking to be done and come to rinse off their bodies, and Bilbo was not at all surprised that he couldn’t care any less about that.

“It’s a _yes_ , by the way,” Bilbo said against Thorin’s lips.

“Hm?”

“Yes, I’ll marry you, alright?” Bilbo laughed, and laughed some more at the way Thorin’s face brightened, like there was any other answer that could possibly have been given.

***

Spring mornings grew colder towards the end of the season, such that it was no longer uncommon for Thorin to take hot water soaks before breakfast, and for Bilbo to join in, because why the hell not. He disliked the cold as well, and liked wet, naked Thorin very much — bit of a no-brainer, really, and easily worth getting up early or culling some time from breakfast to join Thorin whenever possible.

He decided that he loved mornings like these, then, despite the nippy cold and the blocked noses that came along with it; breathing in copious amounts of steam helped with that loads, anyhow, and nothing warmed him as much as fifteen minutes in the tub with Thorin could. Well, except perhaps sex, but that was a different story altogether.

Bilbo sighed and reclined against Thorin until the water was up to his nose, blowing out a steady stream of bubbles as he sank beneath the surface. Behind him, Thorin exhaled as well, laving more water over Bilbo’s hair and reaching around with a hand to massage his groin. The heat of the water was making Bilbo dozy, and he lifted his face to lick bathwater from Thorin’s drippy beard.

“Watch it, you,” Bilbo said, and smiled up at him. “If you’re not careful we’ll have to take another bath.”

“Another bath we shall take, then,” Thorin replied, but his hand rose higher and planed Bilbo’s soft stomach instead. The friction of his hairy body was delicious even when wet; Bilbo couldn’t resist rutting back on him just a little, and felt Thorin’s cock bump mischievously against his arse cheeks.

“We’ll be as wrinkly as prunes, Thorin, and aren't you supposed to have a kingdom to rule?”

“And I have a hobbit to love dearly. I am sure you can see how that is of greater importance.”

“Get stuffed,” Bilbo said, laughing as he patted Thorin’s face and kissed the bottom of his jaw.

Thorin eyed the ring on Bilbo’s finger with mild amusement. “You’re never going to take that off, are you?”

Bilbo shook his head and held his hand up to the light, resting his head against Thorin’s shoulder. “Nope. Wouldn’t count on it.”

“You see, I do believe this is why I thought it best not to propose at the earliest possible avenue,” Thorin sighed, tipping his head forward. “I had an inkling this would happen, I honestly did.”

“Really? I thought that was because you’re a massive _cock_ , that’s all.”

And, well, it was impossible not to join in with the laughter that followed. Bilbo grinned and leaned further back with his eyes closed to enjoy the rest of the soak, Thorin’s smile against his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop by on [Tumblr](http://www.fideliant.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi!


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